


The Brave and Stupid Thing

by whateverrrrwhatever



Series: practice prompts [13]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, I'm... not a doctor, M/M, Miscommunication, Shower Sex, there's a description of reducing a dislocated joint but it's pretty vague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22784302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whateverrrrwhatever/pseuds/whateverrrrwhatever
Summary: “Fine,” Stiles interrupts, irritated. “Fine. There’s no way I’m going to be able to wash my hair on my own, anyway. What’s one more indignity?”--Stiles begrudgingly accepts Derek's help after an injury, only to end up with a lot more than that. Written for the prompt "washing their hair in the shower."
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: practice prompts [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626685
Comments: 29
Kudos: 645





	The Brave and Stupid Thing

**Author's Note:**

> [dottie_wan_kenobi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottie_wan_kenobi) and I have decided to work our way through a list of prompts over the next however long, which means I’ll be writing little ficlets periodically and sometimes sharing them here.
> 
> This one got a little out of hand. Thanks to [dottie_wan_kenobi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottie_wan_kenobi) for betaing, again and forever.

“Almost there,” Stiles says, grimacing as he stumbles, jostling into Derek’s side. “Fuck.”

“You need to go to the hospital,” Derek says again, tightening his grip on Stiles’s waist, bracing him as they start forward again. They’re almost out of the woods, in every sense of the term, and the Sheriff’s house is visible through the trees.

“I’m told you I’m fine,” Stiles says through gritted teeth, and Derek’s struck by how much he’s changed, how different they are now. Five years ago, Stiles would be crying, trying to be quiet, unable to keep from shaking apart in pain. The man next to him is clear-eyed and scowling, only betrayed by the tension in his jaw, the arm cradled at his side.

“At least let me--” Derek starts, but Stiles stops short and fixes him with a glare.

“No. I’m not going to let you carry me like a fucking child,” he snarls, and limps a couple of steps before pausing, half turning back. “Are you coming or not?”

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” Derek mutters, catches up and snakes his arm around Stiles’s waist.

“Yeah, well. Look in the fucking mirror, asshole.” Stiles says, but lets Derek take a little more of his weight.

++

The shoulder is swollen and already bruised, dark red unfurling under Stiles’s skin around the joint and where his arm hit the warehouse floor. He hisses as he sits down on the bed, arm tucked against his side at an odd angle.

“You know how to do this, right?” Stiles asks.

He nods. It’s not the first time he’s popped a shoulder back into the socket, but it is the first time he’s done it to a human. “What if I hurt you?”

“Don’t. I’m already hurt. You’re supposed to fix it,” Stiles says, weary, and Derek doesn’t argue. 

Stiles slowly lies back on the bed and closes his eyes. Derek watches as he takes in a deep breath and slowly exhales, carefully resting his arm above his head. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Okay.” Derek grabs his arm with both hands and gently pushes and twists. Stiles grunts and grips the blanket with his free hand as the shoulder slips back into place.

“Thanks,” Stiles says. He pulls his arm from Derek’s grip and sits, rolling his shoulder and wincing. “It feels like it’s in there now.” 

“I still think you need to go to the hospital,” Derek says. Stiles looks exhausted, pale and drawn, deep bruises under his eyes and dirt smeared all over his face, the back of his neck, his forearms. There’s blood in his hair, crushed leaves, another bruise on his cheekbone. Probably one on his hip, too, Derek thinks. He went down pretty hard.

Stiles runs a hand through his hair and frowns. “What I need is to take a shower and pass out for the next twelve hours.”

“I think you need to ice it. Do you want me to--”

“I don’t need your help,” Stiles says, struggling with his shoelaces. “What the fuck do you even know about the human body.”

“I know you don’t need my help. I just thought--”

“Then why are you still here?” Derek watches Stiles reach to take off his sock and draw back, hissing in pain.

“I wanted--” Derek starts.

“Fine,” Stiles interrupts, irritated. “Fine. There’s no way I’m going to be able to wash my hair on my own, anyway. What’s one more indignity?”

“I’m just trying to help,” he snaps. “It’s not a fucking insult."

“Whatever,” Stiles sighs. “If you’re going to help me, maybe actually do it. I can’t get these socks off by myself.”

“Okay,” Derek says, trying to calm down -- Stiles is being an asshole, but that’s nothing new, and yelling at each other won’t make any of this better. He kneels down and carefully pulls Stiles’s socks off. One of his ankles is swollen and red, probably twisted in the fall. Derek gently runs a finger over the swelling, cups the back of Stiles’s heel as Stiles hisses through his teeth. “Your ankle.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, quiet and strained. “It’s fine.”

“You should be more careful.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. I’m just supposed to sit there,” Stiles sneers. “I”m just supposed to watch while you fight for your lives and I’ll just sit there like a useless weak idiot? You think I’m so fragile, but how many times have the rest of you almost died?”

“ _Almost_ died. But we haven’t, because we’re werewolves. We’re a lot harder to kill than you are, and I don’t want to--” he breaks off, remembering the way Stiles’s body seemed to float for a second, suspended, before he hit the ground, imagining a slightly different angle to his fall, the sickening crack of his skull against concrete. “You need to be more careful. You have to.”

“I’m so tired of this. You know what you are? You’re an asshole who thinks he can tell everybody else what to do and what’s important. Well guess what,” Stiles shouts, splotches of red rising on his cheeks, his chest, the back of his neck. “You don’t get to decide for me.”

“No. Stiles I-- _I_ need you to be more careful,” Derek says, quiet and fierce.

“You need--” Stiles deflates. He laughs, but it comes out wrong, humorless and tight. “Okay. Okay. Can we not -- can you just help me?”

Derek nods jerkily. “What do you want me to--”

“Just, help me stand up,” Stiles says, and Derek takes his good arm, helps him off the bed, a steady hand at the small of his back. He’s warm there, his skin slightly sticky with sweat, muscles shifting as he rises. Stiles is stronger than he was five years ago, too, and Derek tries not to think about it.

Derek helps him into the bathroom, pulls towels out of the cupboard, turns on the faucet, turns his back so Stiles can finish undressing. He’s exhausted, Derek thinks, and too quiet -- he can hear Stiles struggling with the buckle on his belt, the sharp exhale he tries to hide when he accidentally jerks his shoulder pulling it free, still too proud and angry to ask for help.

“Okay,” he says finally, and Derek turns back. Stiles is backlit by the window, one hand braced against the sink to keep him upright. He looks even worse, in this light -- the bruise on the side of his hip stretches above his waistband, he’s pushed his hair back and Derek can see a cut on his forehead above his left eye. He tries not to think about how Stiles still looks so -- good, handsome, Derek has always thought, following the proud line of his jaw, the soft swell of his lips, the slope of his forearm as he lets the sink take some of his weight.

Stiles doesn’t look at Derek as he fumbles with the button on Stiles’s fly and eases the waistband over his bruised hip, staring over Derek’s shoulder, angry and flushed. Derek’s glad of it, really, that Stiles isn’t watching him as he gently helps Stiles out of his jeans, that he’s afforded this small privacy. He takes a deep breath and stands. Stiles manages his boxers on his own, hooking a thumb in the elastic and clumsily shoving until they fall to the floor.

“How do you want me to--” Derek asks awkwardly, hands useless at his sides. He keeps his eyes on Stiles’s uneven shoulders, on the bare, sickly tree outside the window, on the moles on his collarbone. He shouldn’t be getting worked up over this.

Stiles sighs. “I think we both have to get in. Sorry.”

Derek nods. This might have been a mistake, but he’s here now; he said he would help. He’s not prepared for this -- standing in the bathroom in Stiles’s childhood home, helping him climb into the tub, naked and bruised. Stiles won’t meet his eyes, and under the pain and fear-sweat, old adrenaline, the burnt edge of frustration, his scent is miserable and shamed. Derek tries not to make it worse -- keeps his touch firm and matter-of-fact, not too gentle; tries not to linger or look when he’s not supposed to. He knows Stiles doesn’t want this -- doesn’t want any of it, and Derek’s not going to make this worse for him by being weird about it.

“Okay?” Derek asks, and Stiles nods, standing under the water, wincing a little as the water runs into the cut over his eye. Derek undresses quickly, mechanically, and climbs into the tub behind him. He’s uneasy and silent, trying not to stare, trying not to let his gaze catch, trying not to get distracted, when Stiles speaks.

“Can you--” he says abruptly. The back of his neck is pink from the heat of the water, and the ends of his hair, grown out a little too long, have curled in the damp.

Derek tries to answer, but his mouth is completely dry. He swallows, and tries again. “Yeah. Sure.”

He nearly drops the soap twice and spends too long working it into a lather while the room fills with steam, until he’s stalled as long as he can. Still, he hesitates for a long moment, bracing himself, before he closes the distance between them. The world seems to contract to this: the crowded bathtub, the sound of the water against the curtain, the warmth of the water and the room and the steam curling between them, the smell of soap and Stiles, the dirt and blood and fear washing away.

Stiles’s skin is soft, slippery flushed red and warm under Derek’s hands, and he has moles here, too -- Derek’s noticed before, but he’s never been this close for this long, so close he can see the small cluster by the tip of Stiles’s shoulder blade, has enough time to just look at him. He doesn’t, though, instead focuses on carefully washing the lines of Stiles’s back, nearly as broad as Derek’s now that he’s an adult, muscled and strong, human and vulnerable.

Stiles is still coiled tight, unease in the lines of his body, the set of his shoulders. It’s probably making his body hurt more than it has to -- he’s uncomfortable, Derek thinks, guilt lumping in his throat. He runs his hands down Stiles’s back one last time and reaches for the shampoo.

He focuses on the simple act of service, ignoring the way Stiles lets out a shaky breath when he winds his fingers in Stiles’s hair. Derek runs his thumbs down the ridges on the back of Stiles’s skull and he grunts quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, low and quiet, almost a whisper, startling Derek out of his focus.

“For what?”

“That you have to help me with this.”

“It’s fine.” Derek pauses, splays his fingers in the soapy hair above Stiles’s temples. “All those things you said before -- I don’t think that. I don’t think you’re weak. I don’t think you’re an idiot. Most of the time.” The joke falls flat in the silence.

“Then maybe you should stop treating me like you do,” Stiles mutters, and Derek can feel him tense up under his hands.

He has to get it right this time, to make Stiles understand. Everything about this moment feels fraught and fragile: a room full of powder kegs and all Derek has is a burning match to light the way to safety. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you. Stiles, I couldn’t--”

“Please don’t-- you can’t just say that. You don’t have to make me feel better. I know how things are, I know you don’t-- I know you don’t,” Stiles fumbles, stops trying.

“Don’t what,” Derek snaps, weary, tired of fighting and out of patience and as confused as ever.

“I know you don’t feel like that about me,” Stiles says, defeated.

Derek freezes a little. “I don’t... what?

“Derek, please don’t make me say it. This is-- I can’t fucking believe we’re having this conversation naked in the shower. This is fucking humiliating. At least I don’t have to look at your face.”

Derek knows better -- he knows he should leave it here, knows he shouldn’t press the issue. This can only end badly, he knows for a fact, but the hope hooks into his chest, tugs at his breath. So he lets himself, this once -- lets his hands rest on Stiles’s waist, lets himself step closer, so his chest is barely touching Stiles’s back, both of them slick with water, tilts his head and lets his lips get close to Stiles’s ear. It’s like he thought it would be, like he’d wanted -- Stiles’s breath hitches, his heart beats faster, futile frustration giving way to surprise, and maybe something else, something more promising. So he lets himself say it, low and dark, unmistakeable. “I don’t feel what way about you, Stiles?”

“What are you--” Stiles gasps.

“Tell me what I don’t feel,” Derek interrupts him, certain now, emboldened by the way Stiles leans into him, the curl of warmth in his scent.

“I thought, I want--” Stiles says, and his voice wavers, gives in to a shuddering exhale. “I want you. I have for-- too long. You don’t want me back.”

“Don’t I?” Derk says, mouth brushing against the shell of Stiles’s ear, tightening his grip, pulling Stiles’s body tight against his, so Stiles can feel him, skin on skin. He’s hard against Stiles’s ass, pressing closer, suggesting more.

“Derek, fuck,” Stiles says, arching back, and Derek lets his hands slip lower, curl around Stiles’s hips, gentle on his bruised side.

“Is this what you want?” He drags his fingers over Stiles’s hipbone and further, to where Stiles’s dick is -- fuck -- hard and twitching under his touch.

“Yes. Yes, I--” Stiles starts, but Derek wraps his hand around Stiles’s dick and the words give way to a low groan. He tries to rock back against Derek and slips, hissing as he catches himself, jerking his shoulder.

“Shh, let me. Let me, I’m going to take care of you. I’ve got you,” Derek says, and steadies Stiles against his body, takes his weight as he works his hand in a slow, building rhythm. He presses kisses to Stiles’s shoulder, sucking at his neck, the hinge of his jaw, to hear him gasp. Derek can hear his heart racing, the low moans caught in the back of his throat, the sound of Stiles’s cock in Derek’s hand, loud in the tiled room. It’s not long before Stiles’s hips stutter into Derek’s fist, his back arches against Derek’s chest as he comes, crying out.

“I want to -- help me turn around, I want to see you,” Stiles says, and Derek steadies him as he leans on the wall and turns, too close, knocking their knees together.

Stiles is looking at him with wide, hungry eyes, and Derek can’t take it -- he tucks his face into the crook of Stiles’s neck, pressing his open, gasping mouth against Stiles’s skin, breathing him in, one hand curled in his hair and the other wrapped around his dick. It doesn’t take long, like that -- he comes, body trembling, Stiles watching him, stroking down his back to gentle him through it.

He lifts his head from Stiles’s shoulder, blinking and sated, to find Stiles looking at him in something like disbelief. Something heavier and happier, Derek thinks, meeting his uncertain, exhausted gaze. Derek knows that this is something he might come to regret, but also maybe not. He’s already done the brave and stupid thing, after years of denying himself.

There’s nothing left but to surrender to the consequences, so when Stiles hooks his fingers under Derek’s jaw and tugs him forward, he goes. Stiles kisses him gentle and lush and long, one hand anchored on Derek’s back, grounding them both.

When they finally pull back from each other, the water’s at the very edge of going cold. Stiles’s fingertips are starting to wrinkle, goosebumps breaking out on his arms. His whole body is slumped in exhaustion. Derek helps him out of the bath, wraps him up, wants to carry him to bed but doesn’t. He pulls Stiles closer to support his weight, and Stiles lets him, this time. Lets Derek help him get dressed, help him into bed and climb in after him. Lets Derek pull him tight against his chest and share the burden of his pain, the ghost of a dull ache in his own shoulder, his ankle and hip, as Stiles finally settles, relieved.

“I hate it when you get hurt,” he says quietly. In the dark, it feels like a different kind of confession.

“I know,” Stiles mumbles against his pillow, heartbeat steady, half asleep. “But I’m going to.”

“I know,” Derek says, touching his lips the back of Stiles’s neck, not even a kiss, just another point of contact between them, now that he’s allowed. Stiles is drifting off in his arms, breathing even and slow. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can also find me on [tumblr](https://whateverrrrwhatever.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/whateverrrrisay).


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